


Untitled Imported Work

by Vickiemoseley



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Gen, Hurt Fox Mulder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vickiemoseley/pseuds/Vickiemoseley
Summary: The By Her Side series was created when I just couldn't get out of my head the idea that Bill Scully Jr. had to have some redeeming qualities





	Untitled Imported Work

**Author's Note:**

> The By Her Side series was created when I just couldn't get out of my head the idea that Bill Scully Jr. had to have some redeeming qualities

By Her Side: Scully's two cents  
Disclaimers in the first part, all ratings still apply  
by Vickie Moseley  
vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

"You need your rest, Mulder. Take a nap."

I didn't mean anything by it. I am NOT ducking the question. The  
man just woke up after the _second_ surgery in 7 days and he  
doesn't need to be overtaxing himself. He's in the hospital, for  
cripes sakes!

"Running away, Scully? It's not like I can come after you or  
anything."

Why is he the most hateful when he's also the most vulnerable. I  
can't hit him, I can't even yell at him. He's this _lump_ in a  
hospital bed and if I so much as raise my voice it will appear that  
I'm browbeating him. I _hate_ when he does this! OK, Mr.  
MachoMan. Mr. Testosterone. I'll tell you why Bill knows about  
Ed Jerse.

"You were dying on me, Mulder, and I knew I had to use  
something drastic to get you to stay with me."

He looks a little hurt at that statement. Well, actually, that _is_ the  
reaction I was hoping for.

"I'd never leave you, Scully. Not if I could help it."

Goddammit! He just keeps doing that! And I sit here after he's  
offered me the perfect opportunity to tell him what _he_ means to  
me and once again, I'm going to let it slip by.

"I know that, Mulder."

I do know that. I've seen it, a thousand times. Everytime he's  
come to look for me, everytime he's been there for me, everytime  
he's beaten the odds when he should have been dead. For a long  
time, maybe a year, I thought it was the search. I thought he was  
staying alive simply so he could find Samantha. I was almost  
positive that was the reason he didn't go 'sour' in the ambulance  
ride from the docks in Raleigh. He'd lost so much blood, his B/P  
was dropping like a rock and yet he hung in there, he didn't leave.  
I was certain it was the search.

I'm not so sure when that changed or even when I noticed the  
change. After Alaska, maybe. After seeing him flatline. I know I  
have no reason to believe this, but I felt that it was _my_ touch that  
brought him back. Oh, yeah, and the defibrillator. But basically, I  
touched him, I remember my hand on his forehead. I'm not  
thinking I'm some 'miracle worker' here. I just think my hand, my  
touch made a connection to him and guided him back to me. I do  
know that's what I was praying for all the time I was applying the  
paddles. That he would know it was me and that he wouldn't leave  
me.

Like I didn't leave him. Twice now.

So why the hell can't I tell him that?

"Mulder, I . . ."

"Why Jerse, Scully? I mean, you didn't . . ."

Shit! The man can be so infuriating. I was about to tell him . . . I  
have no idea what I was about to tell him and he brings that idiot  
Tattoo Boy back into it? And I didn't 'what' with Jerse? Sleep  
with him? Not that again!

"Mulder, Jerse, . . . Ed, . . . there was nothing to that. Honest.  
And I don't know why I brought it up to Bill or to you. Maybe  
because we've never talked about it and I knew you were upset by  
the whole incident. I wanted shock value, Mulder. Don't try to  
make it more than that, OK?"

He swallows and nods. I really hate when he does that. It's meant  
to be agreement with my statement. But when I look in his eyes, I  
know he's just placating me. Letting me think he's agreeing when  
really he's busy analysing my motives, trying to 'profile' me on the  
fly, so to speak. I could punch his lights out for that, if he wasn't  
already in a hospital bed.

"Mulder, really, it wasn't about . . ."

"Me. Yeah, you told me that."

He's supposed to be doped up, that was pretty forceful. Maybe the  
drugs are wearing off. But the pain on his face has nothing to do  
with his physical condition.

"No, I wasn't going to say 'you'. I was going to say, ah, it was  
stupid and reckless and I still don't know why I did it, but it wasn't  
about . . . I mean, I held no feelings for him, you know. Can you  
understand that it wasn't about . . ."

Love, stupid. It wasn't about love. I didn't love Ed Jerse. It's so  
easy to _think_ those words but so impossible to say them. If I say  
I didn't love Ed Jerse, then it begs the larger question: Do I love  
Mulder. And yes, God in heaven, yes I do. But to tell him that, I  
can't do it. I'm not that strong.

I look up from my inspection of my cuticles and notice that Mulder  
is nodding again. This time, I think he's received the message.  
Maybe Tara is right, maybe he does know.

I'm such a fucking coward.

I need to get out of here. I get up to leave, but I feel his hand on  
mine.

"Please, Scully. Don't go. Not yet. Not till I fall asleep. Please."

In a few words he conveys a thousand messages. Pleading, fear,  
pain, . . . forgiveness. I know that if I sit back down, we'll talk of  
other things, of going home and getting him back to work. I'll start  
the conversation with my usual admonishment that he _has_ to rest  
this time, that chest wounds are _nothing_ to mess around with.  
That he'll be staying at my place for several days, and he can just  
get used to it. That thought should terrify me after our most recent  
brush with 'the topic' but oddly enough, I feel safer with Mulder  
_in_ my apartment than I do when I'm alone and just allowing  
myself to think about him.

But maybe I don't want to let the opportunity pass us by this time.

"Why did Ed Jerse bother you so much, Mulder?" If he can play  
this game, so can I.

He's silent for a moment. My hand has slipped into his again, and  
I'm rubbing the spot right under the tape from the IV. He scratches  
at it all the time, it's his way of rebelling against the needles and the  
tubes. If I hold his hand and rub it, he can't get his nails there and  
do more damage.

"It was dangerous."

"A given. And I've already admitted that."

"It was . . . It hurt to watch, Scully. It just hurt."

"Mulder, I didn't mean . . ."

He cuts me off. "No, I know. It wasn't about me. It was about  
you. And the way you were feeling. You felt like you were  
trapped. And the cancer, the scare you got from Betts, I  
understand all that. For God's sakes, Scully, I _did_ graduate with  
highest honors in psychology, after all. I didn't just play rugby for  
six years!"

I have to smile at that, even though he didn't mean it as a joke.

"But you don't seem to understand. It hurt me to watch you hurt  
yourself. Or try to hurt yourself. It hurt me because I didn't want  
you to do something that reckless, that stupid, that dangerous, . . ."

He stops and stares away from me, somewhere toward the little  
closet at the foot of the bed.

"... unless it was with me."

Now, he's studying the patterns the crisp cotton blanket makes on  
his lean thighs. "Maybe it would be best if you go. I'll get to sleep.  
I promise."

The large lump in my throat can only be my heart. I know it's a  
pretty tight fit up there, and it makes taking in air a bit difficult.

"Mulder, Ed Jerse will never happen again."

He quick shifts his eyes up to face me. "Don't make promises,  
Scully. You might not be able to keep them."

"It's not a promise. It was a one time thing. I did it, it's over, I  
won't do it again. I don't need to do it again and I never will, that I  
know."

"Scully, sooner or later, you'll get tired of all of this. The work, the  
Bureau, . . . me. You've got to. People change, we grow. We  
grow together or we grow apart. Jerse wasn't a problem as much  
as he was a symptom. A symptom of your own restlessness. Don't  
hate yourself for being restless. God knows I don't hate you for  
that."

"Do you love me, Mulder?"

I wanted to stop his little 'couch session' and boy have I been  
successful. Get the defibrillator, guys, we may have need of it  
again. Mulder is looking at me with a slack jaw and a 'Mom, I just  
saw an alien ship land on the front yard' look on his face. It would  
be well worth a picture, if I had a camera, which I don't.

I know what he's trying to tell me. I can see it a mile away. It's  
the old 'go be a doctor' speech, with a slight variation in theme.  
'Go be a prostitute, Scully, as long as it's away from me.' As long  
as you're safe from Fox Mulder, it doesn't matter what you do with  
your life. I really hate this little tactic of his.

And maybe now it's just sinking in what I've said. I just asked my  
partner if he loves me. Saying words we've skirted since . . . well  
longer than I can remember. But even in the words, I've hidden  
myself. I'm asking what _he_ feels, not what _I'm_ feeling.

Mulder's face finally takes on some animation. Good thing, too. I  
was ready to call in a crash cart. He's looking at me with a sort of  
shocked look that turns into a sly half grin. I think I'm about to  
know how the canary feels when the cat figures out the latch to the  
birdcage.

"You want to know what we really talked about, Scully? Me and  
Bill? We talked about us. You and I. You're brother . . ." He  
stops for a moment, and blushes. Mulder. Blushing. Maybe it's an  
early sign of cardiac infarction, but I think it's more psychological  
than physiological. Something is embarrassing him.

"Bill thinks I've been an idiot for not 'humping' your brains out."  
There. He looks almost satisfied with himself that he actually said  
the words. "That is his term, by the way. Humping. I would have  
used 'boffing' in the same context, but hey, we grew up on separate  
coast, there's no accounting for regional speech patterns."

I've been taking in his rambling, but I'm not processing the  
information. I'm still stuck on the image of my brother telling my  
partner to screw me. In the biblical sense. Or whatever. And  
Mulder is still speaking.

"So you asked me if I love you, Scully. But if I answer that  
question, I'm going to require an answer to a question of my own.  
Can you handle that?"

My stomach, which hasn't been in the best shape for a week, is now  
somewhere in my upper chest, just below my throat. My heart is a  
little squished, since my stomach seems to be pushing it further up  
my throat. My hands are sweating and I feel faint. Where the hell  
is the crash cart? Maybe I should call for one before he answers  
me, just in case _I_ need it.

My voice is tiny, weak. Amost not there. "Yeah. Sure. I can  
handle that." I swallow, but there's nothing in my mouth. It's the  
Sahara in there.

"Yes, Scully. I love you." He says it surely. Confidently. Like  
he's the one who brought the whole subject up. "I've loved you for  
a long time. I have tried, on repeated occasions, to tell you how I  
feel. I've never used the word 'love', of course. I didn't want you  
keeling over in a dead faint on me."

He reaches out with his other hand, the hand not punctured with an  
IV tube and rests in on top of my hand. "I talked to Bill. About a  
lot of stuff. And I've watched you. These last few days. Scully,  
I'm not leaving you. I know I've made you crazy and I'm sorry.  
But you don't have to use Ed Jerse or quitting the FBI or even . . .  
well, we won't go into the part about the prostitution and the drug  
overdose. Just know that you are the reason I will always come  
back. Always. I love you, Scully. Just being with me, you save my  
life. I can't leave you. It's impossible. You're stuck with me.  
Always."

With my free hand I wipe at the snot running down my lip. Water  
is coming from my eyes, too. So that's where all the moisture  
went! I take my hand and put it on top of his. "I'm glad, Mulder.  
Because I love you. With every breath I take."

I'm soaring. I've never felt this free. Never felt this unrestrained  
and light and . . . unbound. Yet bound. Very bound. To this man  
I'm holding hands with. Bound with silken threads that are  
stronger than kevlar, stronger than titanium. Impossible to break.  
Impossible.

I'm smiling at him now. I'm pretty pleased with myself. I  
answered his question before he could ask it. I have no fear  
anymore.

Until I see the look in his eyes. I've come to know it as 'the evil  
Mulder look'. It's pure six-year-old-with-a-frog-in-his-pocket  
mischief and it's directly squarely at me.

"Scully, I'm very glad you love me. And very happy that you've  
told me. But you still have to answer a question. Remember?"

Hey, I can take whatever he dishes out. I hope.

"OK." Where in the hell is that tiny voice coming from. "What's  
the question?"

"Scully, why haven't we 'boffed' each other's brains out?"

Oh, yes. This one I _can_ handle. Very well, as a matter of fact.

"Well, Mulder. I guess we just haven't acted on our emotions yet.  
But if you would hurry up, get well enough to travel and come with  
me back to my apartment, we might be able to rectify that situation  
in about, oh, two weeks."

Now, it's my turn to play with that canary in the cage.

the end.  
Vickie

vickiemoseley1978@yahoo.com

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^  
Donna: Where does Disco come from?

John: Hell. And not the really cool part of hell with  
all the murderers. It comes from the lame part of hell  
with all the bad accountants.

That 70's Show  
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^


End file.
